


A Kind of Blind Love

by stellarbisexual



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - High School, First Time, Greasers, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Physical Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-14 20:57:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5758603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellarbisexual/pseuds/stellarbisexual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1965, and Chris is a popular senior at a suburban high school in Staten Island, NY; star baseball player and straight-A student, with a pin on the future valedictorian/prom queen.  But: there's always been something about troubled, beautiful Zach Quinto, who lives over the bridge in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn and notoriously runs with a gang.  While to their peers, they could not be more different, the two find themselves helplessly drawn to each other in the months leading up to graduation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Leader of the Pack

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rabidchild67](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/gifts), [jouissant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jouissant/gifts).



> Originally intended for the Pinto Big Bang 2015 and not finished on time. Almost there, I promise.
> 
> All chapter titles are songs from the period, and I highly recommend using them as a playlist while reading, as I've been doing while writing.

The fifth time Chris interacts with Zach Quinto, it’s a sleepy Sunday afternoon and the soda shop is dead as a doornail.  It’s only the beginning of his shift and ordinarily he’d be bored out of his face with no one to wait on, but with a big English test coming up on Tuesday, he grabs a root beer and settles at the counter with _The Iliad_ , the pouring rain tinny against the roof his soundtrack, glad for his solitude.  Almost solitude.

Quinto was already in the back booth by himself when Chris had come in twenty minutes ago, glancing up with those intense eyebrows as Chris’d called out, “It’s cats and dogs out there, isn’t it?!” to his manager, Simon.  He’d noticed Quinto immediately, his sopping umbrella nearly opening back up on him and spraying him in the face as he did.  

He’s been careful to not pay any attention to Quinto, who’s apparently been nursing an egg cream since coming in hours ago and doesn’t want anything else, according to Simon.   _Be glad he didn’t bring his friends with him_ , he’d muttered pointedly.

Chris glances up at him now, though.  It feels daring.  Quinto looks different without his cadre of hoods with him.  Almost normal, but for that wild coif slicked back with pomade or engine grease or whatever the shit is.  His shoulders are hunched under a white, stain-spattered t-shirt, but he’s fairly unguarded otherwise, reading a magazine--probably cars.  Maybe tits.   _He goes with that Spanish girl--Zoe, right?_

Their third interaction had been a summer Saturday at the drive-in: a twilit sea of short shorts and hormones.  Chris had finally worked up the nerve to get an arm around Alice about halfway through _The Misfits_ , heart thudding and hands clamming and unsure where to go from there--or even where he wanted to go.  Alice, meanwhile, stared up at a luminous, long-haired Marilyn Monroe, a sultry, soul-tortured mirror image, transfixed. The plot had been nonexistent and the dialogue too lofty for Chris to focus on, given the circumstances of the inside of his dad’s Chevy.  

Around the arrival of a charmingly morose Monty Clift, a grating screech made every head in the lot turn: the tires of Quinto’s Thunderbird.  The car was a flash of cherry red in Chris’ periphery as he and Alice turned back to the screen, coming to a stop a car’s length ahead on the Chevy’s driver’s side.  Chris’ eyes drifted.  The convertible was packed, flashes of white teeth and moonblue slicks of hair, and Quinto’s golden tan arm emerging from the front seat to wrap around Zoe’s tiny but suggestive shoulders and pulling her in close without hesitation.  She threw her head back and cackled at something Quinto said, and as he turned to take in the amusement of the rest of his crew, they’d locked eyes.

Though he’d been too chickenshit to keep Quinto’s gaze at the theater, he looks his fill now, cataloguing how thoroughly regular it all is, the flick of his fingers at the glossy pages, the mildly interested pass of his eyes.  There’s a pack of cigs at his shoulder, rolled up in the bunch of his t-shirt, a loosey tucked behind his ear.  He’s chewing gum.  His movements halt and his face changes; he knows he’s being watched.  He simply raises an eyebrow in warning, as if to say, _You tell anyone I’m normal, I’ll jump you._

Chris clears his throat.   _Your secret’s safe with me._

He looks back at his book, eyes scanning the same paragraph a few times, listening quietly to the conversation of their breath.  He can swear Quinto’s enjoying the company, too, when Simon bursts in from the back through the swinging red vinyl doors.  

“Chris, would you refill the sugar canisters?”

He’s off like a shot.  “Sure thing.”

Chris starts at the front entrance, out of intimidation, sure, but also out of a basic respect for Quinto’s space--and a strange desire to prolong the anticipation of interaction number five.  Maybe prepare himself, too.

The first had been the worst, mainly because he’d been caught entirely off guard.  Just after Chris had gotten his license, the Chevy’d started acting up, and his dad rose from the breakfast table one morning, shoved a hand in his pants pocket, and tossed the keys in the air.  A pitcher through and through, Chris caught them one-handed, looking expectantly at his father even though they both knew what he was going to say: “It’s your responsibility, too, now." 

His dad had insisted he take it over the Verrazano, since they’d get a better deal in Brooklyn.  “Ninety-sixth and fifth,” he’d said, smiling ear to ear.  “Tell Sal you’re Bobby Pine’s son.  It’ll be a real pisser.”  

_Pisser?_ he’d mouthed to his mom before dutifully heading out the door.

He’d needed to take a few deep breaths before turning the key in the ignition, and there’d been butterflies in his stomach the whole way across the bridge.   _If I die now, it’ll be alone_ , he’d thought wildly.  He’d made it to Sal’s Auto Repair in just under twenty minutes, fingers nearly cramping from how they’d clutched the leather steering wheel, the rehearsed refrain at the tip of his tongue: _Morning, sir.  I was given strict orders to tell you I’m Bobby Pine’s son._  

But Sal wasn’t there.  The lot was empty except for what looked like the shell of a Volkswagen on a couple of risers, a pair of long legs and very worn black boots poking out from underneath.  A transistor radio sat on a workbench nearby, blasting Chuck Berry.  In Chris’ limited imagination, he hadn’t prepared himself for this.

He cleared his throat, fingers flexing to work the kinks out, keys jingling.  “‘Scuse me!” he said, a little too loud.  “Sir,” he added.

That’s when Quinto’d rolled out, pronounced chin smudged with oil.  It’d been too late to take it back.  Quinto braced one hand on the underside of the Volkswagen, looking briefly at Chris and then at the Chevy behind him, his breathing a little labored.  “What’d you do to it?”  He hopped off the dolly and pulled a towel out of his back pocket, wiping his hands and strolling over to Chris’ dad’s car, giving the hood an appreciative stroke of the fingertips, considerably more attention than he’d given Chris.

Chris chooses to forget the rest of what amounted to an unfortunate six minutes of conversation and Quinto poking at his dad’s car.  He’d practically run back to Staten Island on the bus, and his father had, thankfully, taken care of the rest a couple of days later.  

As he nears the back table, he can practically hear Quinto’s muscles clench.

“‘Scuse my reach,” Chris says, grabbing the canister and topping it off methodically.  Quinto even sits up straighter to accommodate.  Chris is about to breathe a sigh of relief - he’s sure he’s in the clear - when Quinto slurs, “Swell bowtie.”

The canister lands back on the table with a pronounced _thunk_ , but Chris manages to school himself into civilization, out of a desire to not get fired, sure, but also because there’s a note of flirtation in Quinto’s insult.


	2. The Wanderer

Chris aces his lit test, just like he aces everything else: without much effort and, frankly, without much passion.  He’s been called “a natural” countless times in his life: by his baseball coach, his fifth grade math teacher, the first girl he’d kissed (she’d been a few years older and worlds more experienced), even his own parents.  Everything’s come easy to him, always.  

That’s why he’d picked up the guitar over the summer, hoping for a genuine challenge.  It’s been a hard-won battle, and his fingers have paid for it, but he’s proud to say he can now pick his way through at least two Otis Reddings and an Elvis tune.  Karl and John have given him plenty of guff for toting it to school with him, but they’ve been coming around.  It gives them something to do while waiting around for practice after class.  

One such afternoon, Chris picks at Daisy (after the family dog, who'd died when he was eleven) to distract himself from the usual conversation.  Karl is agonizing about college choices.  Anton, as always, tries to chime in helpfully with the usual question: _Well, are you going to go to law school or take over the hotel?_  John puts in his typical vote for Harvard, for its proximity to women's colleges.  Alice is characteristically quiet, and Sarah uncharacteristically so.

Chris has applied to Columbia.  He'll get in, and he'll go.  The notion of choice or decision hasn't even entered his mind--apart from his starting to lament the lack of both.  He's still experienced so little.  He should be thrilled; he'll get an apartment in the city and truly be on his own.  Except he knows in his gut that it'll just be more of the same.  He'll come home on the weekends to see his folks and Alice, and maybe sometime during his sophomore year, they'll get married.  

His fingers stop, his breath going shallow, a weight like led on his chest.  He can't imagine going to college, setting down that inevitable path, before feeling something real.

Chris' ears perk when his friends' voices go hushed.

"What do you think, Princeton or Yale?" John jokes.

Chris glances up, into the opening between the sleeves of John and Karl's letterman jackets.  Out in the grass beyond, Quinto's crew stretch luxuriously beneath the shade of a maple.  A few yards away, Quinto strides toward them, tossing a fresh pack of cigarettes from hand to hand.  

Karl chuckles.  Anton smirks.  

"Bunch of lowlifes," Karl mutters.

Chris grimaces, taking one last look at Quinto as he drops to the ground next to Zoe, and sets his fingers to Daisy again.  He's suddenly exhausted.  Were his friends always like this, or have his eyes just been closed for as long?

At least Quinto has a job; Karl's never worked a day in his life.  In fact, Chris would wager that Quinto is far more prepared for life, a real one with all of its challenges, than any of them will ever be, including himself.  Sure, he's got a job, but he doesn't need it to live.  It's more of a character-builder, enforced by his dad, who grew up poor in Sheepshead and never wants him or his sister to forget it.

There are actual stakes riding on Quinto's job at the auto shop.  For how little they've spoken to one another, Chris knows enough about him and his home life; father long dead, brother shipped off to the army, mother still recovering from a nervous breakdown and the two of them living with _her_ mother in a basement apartment in Bensonhurst.  At least that's what everyone says.  

He knows the part about his dad's true.  Sophomore year, when they were in the same trig class, Quinto had been mouthing off from the back one morning, and Mr. Finnegan had just flipped.  He'd gone off - in front of the whole class - about what a waste Zach was, that his father was a decent, hardworking, intelligent man who'd be ashamed of him if he were still alive.   _Running around with hoods; God help your mother_ , he'd growled in his thick brogue.  Granted, Quinto’d been giving Finnegan a hard time for weeks, but ripping into him like that in front of everyone?  It'd been cruel.  

Quinto'd upped the ante and gotten himself thrown out of class only moments later.  Chris still thinks that that'd been a calculated move on his part, that he'd been too upset to continue sitting there and didn't want to just walk out for fear of everyone knowing Finnegan's tirade had gotten to him.

Back then, Quinto's antics had been child's play.  It wasn't until spring of junior year that he'd started rolling with the Rampers, getting into _real_ trouble.  

Everyone knows he carries a knife.

“Major in Leisure Studies, minor in hand-to-hand combat,” Sarah finally pipes up.

“Would you all just--.”  

Chris’ friends turn and stare at him, waiting.

He heaves a sigh that works his shoulders and refocuses his attention on Daisy.  “There’s gotta be something more interesting we have to talk about.”

It isn’t true, but they all give it a rest nonetheless.


	3. Love is Strange

“What are you thinking about?”

The curl of Alice’s accent wraps itself around Chris’ left ear, firing spirals of heat all down the side of his neck.  “I, uh…”  He lets out a nervous puff of laughter.  She smiles and pulls him a little closer, their hips nearly flush but just off-kilter.  She asks that a lot.  Usually it’s more genuine, serious, but not just now.  She’s teasing him, knows he’s all fired up by her perfume, the soft grip of her hands, the curves of her chest and hips.  

It often feels choreographed with them, like someone’s whispering every move into Chris’ ear as he goes.  They’re not making it with each other, not by a long shot; they haven’t gone past each other’s belts, not really.  It’s been appropriately restrained, for two people who’ve made every right move their whole lives.  Alice, the product of international boarding schools and now on her way to being both valedictorian and prom queen.  Golden children, the both of them.  Chris knows better, knows Alice has her demons like anyone else--like him.  But he supposes it’s too late for them to stop playing out the perfect casting of their lives. 

He presses a kiss just underneath her ear.  “We have ‘til eleven.  We can cut out early.  Take the Chevy to Coney.”  He can feel her cheeks fill with her smile.

“Just a couple more songs,” she insists.

He adjusts the grip of their hands and eyes the teacher chaperones by the punch bowls, who are eyeing them right back.

They’re nestled comfortably together when the DJ abandons the slow stuff for the Beach Boys.  They pull apart reluctantly, Karl nudging Chris from behind.  “Incoming.”  Chris turns toward the entrance.  

Quinto and his crew tear through the gymnasium like a hurricane, rustling a couple of easy targets on their way to the food, which a couple of them devour half of like they’re flipping the bird to the entire school .  This feels choreographed, too, expected,  Quinto playing his part as well.

Zoe drags him out onto the floor, a blur of shiny red lips and black leather (Zach’s jacket’s wrapped around her shoulders), and they writhe and laugh together until Finnegan tears them apart and tries, in vain, to give them a talking to. 

“We can go now,” Alice says hopefully, forcing Chris to finally tear his gaze away from it all.

He blindly grips her elegant hand in his, feeling how cool and dry it is by comparison, and they head for the wall of double-doors.  They aren’t in the clear, though; being who they are, it’s only natural that they’re stopped by no fewer than ten people on the way, asking about their plans for the rest of the night, lamenting their exit, whispering feverishly about the drama unfolding on the dancefloor.  By the time Alice manages to pry herself out of Sarah’s grip (she makes a last-ditch effort to get them to go back to Karl’s with the rest of the group), it’s been a solid twenty minutes.  Chris is tired, and any mojo he had for going to the beach with her has diminished in favor of going home to Daisy, or his journal.  

The transition from the fracas of the gym to a navy, star-studded night is jarring.  He glances at Alice with relief.  She looks tired, too, the ghost of her breath on the air as she pulls her shawl tighter around her swimmer’s shoulders.  He slips an arm around her waist and ushers her quietly in the direction of his car, the crush of her heels on the pavement familiar and comforting.  She sighs audibly once the Chevy’s in sight.

Their reprieve doesn’t last long, a rush of  _ Peppermint Twist _ roaring through the school’s heavy side door as it swings wide, a few from Quinto’s crew spilling out into the evening.  Zoe and the other two look deeply satisfied, depleted after the climax of the dance.  Quinto is clearly still keyed up, though, stumbling a little on his gazelle legs as he maneuvers his way back into his jacket.  

Chris goes completely still, taking the opportunity to watch them openly, undetected.  The adrenaline in his ears blocks Alice’s fierce whisper of  _ Chris _ .  He tries getting the key into the passenger side door with his eyes glued to Quinto and Zoe.  They don’t kiss as they part; instead, he wraps her in his arms, protective and affectionate, and rocks her back and forth, her shoes making the same sound as Alice’s did only moments before.  She smiles into his neck, but it’s not lascivious, not like their display on the dancefloor.  He drawls something that sounds like  _ Bye, babe _ , and she trills a playful, sing-songy  _ Bye _ in return, the coast of her voice turning to snickers as one of the others yanks her in the opposite direction.

Quinto’s smile for her quickly fades as he strolls around the corner, and Chris finally gets the door open for Alice.  She hops in, nearly shutting the door on the tulle of her skirt in the process, Chris righting it like a gentleman before strolling around the front of the car to the other side, matching Quinto’s strides foot for foot.  He pauses, fingers tucked under the driver’s side door handle, watching over the endless line of car tops as Quinto gets smaller and smaller, hips working under jeans in a way that says,  _ Fuck you, all of you _ .  

His car vibrates with the hum of the horn, the sound echoing through the lot.  He jumps, caught.  Alice.  He flings the door open and ducks inside, smiling apologetically, his heart hammering in his chest.  His fingers fumble at the ignition but he gets it started, taking a deep breath as he pulls out and rides the brake toward the main road.  As they come up on the front of the school, Alice seems to shrink in anticipation.  By the bike racks, Quinto sits astride his Harley--his old man’s Harley--throwing his weight into the kickstarter and growling as it sputters pathetically, his voice carrying through Chris’ cracked window.   _ Shit _ .  

It takes only a split second for Chris to put the Chevy back in park.  Alice’s voice is more insistent this time.  “Chris,  _ no _ .”  

But he’s already half out the door.  “His father and mine were old friends,” he lies by explanation and swings up and around the side of the car, calling for Quinto’s attention.  “Hey.  Need a lift?”

Quinto ignores him, hopping off the Harley for a closer examination.  “Shit,” he says again, flicking at something near the footrest.  

Chris is instantly embarrassed for even considering direct contact an option.  A trademark Bob Pine  _ Sorry I asked _ is on the tip of his tongue when Quinto kicks the bike.  “You got any tools on you?”  He rubs a hand against the shadow on his jaw, considering the now useless collection of parts--and his options.

“‘Fraid not,” Chris answers, not fully understanding why he’s pushing this but pushing nonetheless.  “Come on.  Hop in.  Seventieth and seventeenth, right?”

Quinto finally looks at him, both surprised and impressed.  

“It’s not going anywhere,” Chris nods at the bike.

With one last helpless glance at the Harley, Quinto hocks a loogie onto the pavement and begrudgingly lowers himself into the backseat of Chris’ car.

As Chris pulls onto the main road, he can almost feel the chill coming from the passenger seat.  “I’ll drop you home first,” he reassures Alice, certain any plans for the beach have officially been ditched.  She doesn’t respond, arms wrapped around her purse, eyes out the window.  

“Relax, English.  You’re not my type.”  There’s a smirk in Quinto’s voice.  Possibly a slight slur, too. 

“Thank God for that,” Alice retorts quietly, sinking further into the leather seat.

The silence in the car is deafening, though thankfully it doesn’t last long, with Alice’s house being just a couple of minutes away from school.  

Chris takes in a deep gust of air as he gets out to walk her to her door.  She’s already standing there on the curb before he can be gentlemanly about it, a statuesque vision with slitted icy blue eyes.  

She holds her hands up in defense when he attempts to escort her, her tiny satin heels dangling from one of them.  “Don’t bother.”  Then, in a pointed whisper: “ _ Be careful. _ ”

“I’ll call you tomorrow?”

She doesn’t reply.  

He takes another, more fortifying breath before getting back in the car.  Without Alice, the scent of whiskey and Aqua Velva is overpowering.  He glances at Quinto in the rearview, startled to find him staring right back.  “You can come up and ride shotgun, you know.”

“No, thanks,” Quinto replies with a false brightness.  

Chris lets out a frustrated grunt as he pulls back onto the road.  He’s not surprised Quinto’s acting like an ingrate.  Still, he appreciates having this rare access to him.  He takes furtive glances at him as they merge onto the parkway, noting his darkly masculine features as he lights up a cigarette.  

He’s a real looker, Quinto.  Sarah had even said so once.  Karl had, of course, given her all kinds of hell for it--still does.  But she’s right.  He could be a movie star.   _ In another life _ , as Chris’ mother would say.  

“You makin’ it with her?”  Quinto’s deep, equally dark voice cuts into his thoughts.

“ _ What? _  Who?” he sputters stupidly, thinking of his mother still.

The whites of Quinto’s teeth show when he smiles.  “The English girl.”

“Alice,” Chris is sure to clarify, unsure of how to respond.  He ultimately decides not to.  He can maintain an air of mystery just as well as the next guy.  “You writing a book?”  He can be just as bold, too.  “You makin’ it with that Spanish girl?”

“Saldana?”  Quinto’s voice nearly cracks; it’s the first time Chris has ever heard him actually sound like a teenager.  He lets out a genuine laugh, his hair coming undone a little and flopping over his forehead, warm brown eyes drifting out the car window.  “No.”

Chris takes pause at this bit of information.  A definitive no.  And Quinto doesn’t seem to give a lick if he plans on telling his friends--which he doesn’t.  He’s keeping this for himself, all of it.

“Chevy’s in good shape,” Quinto says. 

“Thanks to you.  She’s been running like a dream ever since.”  Another silence stretches.  Chris can’t take it; for whatever reason, he’s desperate to keep the conversation going by any means necessary.  “It’s a real bite about your bike.  What happened to the Thunderbird anyway?”

Quinto looks impressed again: impressed that he noticed, maybe impressed that he asked.  “It was just a loaner.”

Chris gives him a knowing smile.  That means he stole it.  He returns his gaze to the road, realizing with a skip in his heart that he’s gone over the bridge without even thinking about it.  

Bay Ridge and Bensonhurst are hopping compared to his sleepy Staten Island suburb.  Admittedly, Chris’ experiences in Brooklyn have been limited to those introduced directly by his father, more “character-builders.”  Quinto’s kind and wannabes alike are on every corner, some smoking, some drinking but not breaking bottles yet; the night’s just getting started.  The girls are really different, he notices, dangerous-looking.  He’s not sure he’d be as comfortable offering any of them a ride.  

Seventieth Street is quieter, darker.  People linger on some of the stoops, but for the most part, everyone on the block seems to be hiding away in their houses.  

All but Quinto’s mother, who emerges from the basement apartment of a brownstone in a housedress, her brow furrowed, watching Chris’ Chevy like a hawk. 

Quinto’s weight shifts across the leather seats.  “ _ Shit _ .”

Chris pulls over immediately, giving him a few houses’ distance to his own.  

“Shit,” Quinto repeats, feigning gathering himself to buy some time.  He takes one final drag off the cigarette before flicking it out the window. 

“You need help getting to the door?”  Chris is hoping to lighten the mood, make him smile again.  

Quinto expertly collapses the passenger seat so he can get out, and Chris holds it down for him.  He stumbles a little as he gets to his feet, big hand suddenly slapping over Chris’ on the leather, covering it, warm and so sure.  His breath ghosts over the side of Chris’ face.  “You gonna kiss me goodnight, Pine?” he says before climbing clumsily out through the passenger-side door.

Chris blinks as the door slams shut, heart thunderous in his goddamn throat.  He licks his lips, echoing Quinto’s refrain.  “Shit.”

A gruff female voice grabs his attention.  Mrs. Quinto handles her son roughly, with the fury of a deeply concerned mother.  The words are barely discernable, loud, emotional, and accented as they are.  The hard smack to Quinto’s cheek is clear as day, though, cutting through the night.  

Quinto looks resilient.  He has the decency to turn his face down and away.  

Her eyes shift over to Chris.  He sinks in the driver’s seat, physically incapable of starting the engine up and driving away.  “Who’s that?” she demands, sounding helpless at the sight of another unfamiliar face.

Quinto’s reply is fierce as he stalks down to the lowest level of the house.  “Nobody, Ma.”


	4. Just My Imagination (Running Away With Me)

Baseball practice the next day is business as usual.  His father is in the second row of the bleachers.  Alice isn’t--the only aberration.  

Chris squints in the blinding sun, looking down at his hands as they grip the neck of the bat, ready to practice his swing.  They look different.  He feels different, on a cellular level.  It’s beyond peculiar to feel this way somewhere as routine as practice, almost like being a stranger in his own life.  It’s a feeling that’s carried over from the night before, even something as mundane as getting into bed, the same bed he’d cried in when his first crush had brutally rejected him in the sixth grade.  

John had just been talking to him the other day about how he’d felt something similar, now that his college apps were in.  _  Senioritis.  _  One foot in one life, one foot in another.   _ I’m just done with all of this _ , he’d said.  Chris had understood, but he didn’t have senioritis; his affliction was something deeper, unnameable.  It had been festering for some time, maybe even since he was a kid.  

And it had been somehow activated by Quinto.

Karl plops his huge frame onto the bench, forehead glistening as he downs a cup of water and refills it, twice.  “Say, where’s Alice?”

Chris growls a little under his breath, swinging the bat.  Karl notices everything.  

“What’d you do this time?”  The toe of Karl’s cleat digs into his calf.  

“Ow,  _ shit _ , nothing,” Chris insists, kicking Karl in the shin before returning to his swing, putting enough  _ umph  _ into it to come close to dislocating his shoulder.  “She had a headache last night, she’s probably not feeling well,” he lies, a little too effortlessly.  It thrills him almost as much as it did offering Quinto a lift the night before.

He wonders if he’d conjured the whole thing, if he’d really gone to the beach with Alice, if the whole end of the night had been part of some incredibly vivid dream he’d had in that same childhood bed.  

He cracks the bat against the ball and does a lazy circle around the bases through muscle memory alone.  He’s sure his eyes and the piercing sunlight are working together to play tricks on him when he spots Zoe strutting past his dad toward the dugout, two of Quinto’s cronies nipping at her heels.  Quinto isn’t there, though; still doing penance for his mother, Chris imagines. 

Zoe’s elegant hands come together in applause, her eyes hidden by oversized shades.  As Chris draws closer, he notices she’s wearing Quinto’s jacket.   _ “Saldana?  No,” _ he remembers.  She brings two lacquered fingertips between her crimson lips and whistles.  

Karl is still resting on the bench, utterly perplexed.  

Cronie #1 - Miles, a string beany Irish kid - throws him a smile.  “What’s shakin,’ Pine?”

Zoe lifts her sunglasses onto her head, eyeing him up.  “Que tal, guero.”

“Aquí estamos,” Chris tosses back, earning a wide-mouthed laugh from Saldana, then lets a wad of spit fly off into the dirt as he picks up another bat.


	5. Come Softly to Me

Sunday afternoon is just as sleepy and rainy as the last time Quinto’d shown up at the soda shop, empty but for him and his crew smoking, knocking back spiked Cokes (Quinto’s been passing a flask under the table), and generally monopolizing the jukebox.  They’re just about at closing time, and Chris is counting out for Simon, who’d begged off over an hour ago, though not without a stern warning to the bunch that they’d better beat it when the time comes and not take anything in the meantime.   _ Oh, we’ll be real good for Pine _ , Zoe’d drawled, inspiring a hot blush in Chris’ cheeks.  

_ You have my number _ , Simon reminded him before finally pushing through the jingling door at the front.   _...If anything happens _ had been the implied second half of that sentence.  

Chris is sure nothing will, pretty sure, anyway.  He’s earned an odd respect--or maybe just simple tolerance--from Quinto and company.  Whether it’s because he gave him a lift or gave him a little lip, he’s not sure.  

He waits until closing on the dot to turn out the neon lights and start lowering the blinds in the windows.  

“Uh oh.  Time to scram,” Quinto says.  It’s impressive how quickly he gets them all on their feet.  

“Buenas noches.”  Zoe gives him a little wave as she leans against the door, waiting, an unlit cigarette dangling from her mouth.  

The boys make more of a show of getting up, getting their shit together, and leaving.  It takes almost as long as it takes Chris to shut everything down, or maybe they just take as much time as he’s giving.  He’s back behind the counter, apron off, bowtie undone, eyes back on the numbers when Quinto stops directly on the other side, jacket slung over his shoulder.  

“You comin’?” one of the guys asks.  

Quinto’s fingers drift over the edge of the counter.  Chris raises his gaze, eyebrow arched.  

“Think I want a slice of pie,” Quinto says. 

“ _ Have fun _ ,” Zoe calls, earning somewhat confused expressions from the guys, and takes one more look at Chris before pushing through the door.  “Que hermoso,  _ fuck _ .”

The bells on the door jingle four times, one for each of them, echoing as he and Quinto are left on their own.  He pulls out a wet rag from below and wipes down the counter, just to give himself something to do.

Quinto looks at him, fingers drumming near the edge.  “You look like you could use a nip.”  He fishes the flask out of one of his boots and offers it.  

Chris can feel his blood tingle.  He’s had beers with his dad a few times, and got piss-drunk with John on  _ his _ dad’s scotch one terrible night when they were sophomores.  He accepts, a trickle of whiskey stinging as it winds down his throat, the sensation of a few different pairs of lips lingering at the edges of his mouth.  It’s their seventh interaction, but Chris feels more intimidated by him than ever.  Something real is about to happen, and he feels powerless to stop it.

“How’s Alice?”

It both pisses Chris off and leaves him deeply grateful, how Quinto gets right into it like that.  “She’s, uh…”  He lets out an exasperated laugh and swipes a hand over his brow.  “She hasn’t talked to me since the dance.”

Quinto says nothing, just leans forward on his forearms, going at the gum in his mouth like it’s a valid response.  

“My folks see us getting married in a couple of years.”

Quinto purses his lips, considering.  “And what do you see?”

Chris sighs deeply, motioning for the flask again.  After a second, much more generous pull, his tongue is plenty loose.  “I’m not sure how I feel about it.  Marriage, not--.  My sister got married right out of high school, and it’s just… she’s not the same.  We’re not the same.  I look at her, her family, the way she is with my nephew, and it’s like looking at a completely different person.  It’s like watching TV or looking at a picture in a magazine.  And I don’t know what happened to  _ my sister _ , the one I grew up with.  It’s like that person disappeared.  I miss her.”

He finally looks up from where he’s been fiddling with the hem of his shirt.  Quinto is leaning forward with interest.  Chris crosses his arms.  “I just… I don’t know how I feel about it.  I know I have to grow up sometime, but…”

“Marriage is growing up for you?”

Chris blinks.  He’s surprised by the question, more surprised by the source.  “It is, isn’t it?”  

“Not always,” Quinto replies.  

It’s a simple but oddly comforting response.  Chris grimaces, thinking of the next ten years of his life, Columbia, Alice, everything.  He can see the inevitability of it all in a montage behind his eyes.  “I just hate feeling like my life is laid out for me.  Like everything’s been chosen  _ for _ me.  I can’t remember ever choosing anything for myself.  Wanting something and then taking it for myself.”  He hesitates.  “Even Alice didn’t feel like a choice.”

Chris’ hands finally come to rest on the cool counter.  He’s gotten himself all worked up.  This close, Quinto’s eyes are open and warm, the color of undoctored coffee.  “Did you want that pie?” Chris asks stupidly. 

Quinto reaches across the counter, gathers up the two ends of his tie, and pulls him closer.  Chris can feel himself wincing.  

Here it comes.  It’s all been a clever trick to distract him so Quinto can sock him one, crack open the register, and make off with Simon’s cash.  He’s in deep, deep shit.

What actually happens is that Quinto’s mouth descends on his own, fierce in its affection, taking the breath from him almost as much as the crush of his diaphragm against the edge of the counter.  That must be why he loses all control of his own body, hands diving into Quinto’s hair, thumbs caressing his jaw line.  He wonders wildly if Quinto’s playing an elaborate joke; it would make worlds more sense.  His tongue slips into his mouth, pushing the taste of cigarettes and spearmint into his own.  Chris sneaks in a breath as he curls his own tongue against it.  It’s everything he never could have realized he needed, and feels just as inevitable as the rest of it.  

Quinto parts them, leaving Chris’ mouth hanging open, wanting.  “If you tell anyone,” he growls. 

“No, no, I won’t.”  Chris is dismissive of his own breath at this point, the slick from Quinto’s hair all over his fingers.   

One of Quinto’s hands cups his cheek, thumb pressing down on the divot between his nose and top lip.  Chris lets it slip between his teeth.  “I knew you were like this.  The first time I saw you, I knew.  I just _ knew _ .  I could see it in those eyes.”

Chris miraculously regains some of his senses.  He slides his mouth away to plead: “Not here.”  

Quinto’s thumb pushes back into his mouth, sliding down the center of his tongue, rough on rough.  “All right.”  His eyes spark.  “I know a place.”

Chris hopes that he locks up properly on their way out, dazed as he is, adjusting the front of his pants as they emerge into the fog.  He shoves his keys in his front pocket and follows.  The night is still misty, and they walk almost the full sidewalk apart as if the last five minutes never happened, back in the direction of school.  

He hides his reaction as Quinto turns into the entrance to the athletic fields, slipping through a crude opening in the fence.  He can see the bleachers in the distance.  He wants so badly to be clever, to be cool, but ultimately says nothing as they continue in that direction.  

They’re both too tall to slip under without climbing like gymnasts, hands gripping cold, wet metal on their way to the most hidden spot under the ball field seating.  

Quinto turns, finally.  “Romantic, huh?”  Chris can’t decide if he wants to kiss or punch him.  “Get over here,” Quinto beckons quietly, and _ that _ sounds oddly romantic.  Chris obeys, pulled in like they’re magnetized, and Quinto grabs hold of his hips, quickly flipping them so his back’s up against a long metal rod.  He goes pliant, opening his mouth and his legs up to Quinto, already rock hard and a little wet in his khakis.  Quinto purrs as he lines their hips up and presses against him, feeling it.  He tips his chin up so his face can catch the moonlight.  “You’re a real dollface.”

“Shut up,” Chris chances.  

But Quinto’s big, capable hand covers him.  “I think you like it.”

Then his zip is down, and Quinto’s pulling him out into the air, quickly wiping his cold, wet hand off on his jeans before wrapping it around his dick and thumbing at the slit.  

“Oh, God  _ damn _ .”  Chris’ hands flail, wondering in the brief space before Quinto starts bringing him off how many other guys he’s brought here.  Have there been any girls?

“Shh,” Quinto murmurs, and Chris obeys, hiding his open-mouthed cries in the tight stretch of his pale neck, urged on by the thrill of no one knowing where he is--and him being in the last place they’d ever look. 


	6. Wouldn't it Be Nice?

Chris is a heady combination of flushed, sated, and guilty as he sneaks into the house that night.  He stops, noticing his father in a robe on the couch, watching TV.  “Alice?”  There’s a proud paternal smirk in his voice.

“Yeah,” Chris answers, breathless, hoping the living room is dark enough to conceal whatever Quinto surely left blooming all over his neck.

He doesn’t look too long at himself in the mirror as he washes up; part of him is afraid of what he’ll see there.  His body’s buzzing from head to toe, and he’s aching to talk to someone about it, even if the words aren’t quite there yet.

He plucks Daisy from her stand in the corner of his bedroom and sits at the edge of his mattress, cradling her in his lap.  He wants so badly to be able to write a song, put it all in there, but he doesn’t have that skill yet--he’s not sure he ever will.  For now, he’ll have to let someone else’s words do it for him.  

Chris keeps his fingertips light on the strings.  It is late, after all, and while his dad’s cool with him playing, it’s not his favorite thing to listen to.  This isn’t meant to be heard, anyway.  

“ _ Oh yes, I’m the great pretender.  Adrift in a world of my own.  … Too real is this feeling of make-believe, too real when I feel what my heart can’t conceal. _ ”

From that night on, Chris stops counting their interactions.  He knows better than to seek Quinto out, and anyway, he doesn’t have to; Quinto gets awfully good at finding him.  After work, at ball games, in the library.  Chris has to hand it to him: he’s pretty masterful at keeping things to himself.  He’s sure Quinto’s crew has no idea, and he’s damn sure his own friends don’t know.  Hell, they wouldn’t believe it even if he told them outright.  It makes Chris feel superior, in a way, powerful in his secret, the magnitude of it.  

The great unknown that he always knew was waiting for him has finally opened up, and he’s thrown himself into it with abandon.

Everything else in his life goes a little blurry around the edges.  His grades even slip a little, but not enough to make his parents or any of his teachers have a cow.  They’re in the throes of baseball season, gearing up for prom, and college acceptances should be coming soon.  There’s plenty going on.

He finds that none of it actually matters to him, though.  

He’s thankful that Alice has kept her distance, that is until Karl throws a party celebrating his acceptance to Yale.  Karl’s folks are out of town, so it’s bound to be wild, at least by their standards.  Chris isn’t sure what compels him to go.  He doesn’t want to, and since he and Alice have been on the fritz, his friends have given him a lot less shit for not spending time with them.  

Still, he goes, arriving late and with a bottle of gin he swiped from his dad’s liquor cabinet.  Karl looks pleasantly surprised by that, and Chris hopes it’s enough to keep him off his tail about Alice.

The rest of the gang is already an hour in, and everyone’s already blotto, even Alice, who’s coopted the living room with Sarah and made it a proper dance floor.  She giggles, still managing elegance with her arms swinging and her hair a mussed blonde cloud.  The gin certainly helps Chris endure the mind-numbing conversations he has to have while they orbit carefully around each other.  

He’s grateful when John pulls him out onto the front porch for some fresh air.  “It’s starting to smell like a jockstrap in there.  Get enough of that in the locker room.”  John sinks into the porch swing with a sigh, and Chris perches himself on the handrail.  After a loaded silence, John smiles kindly at him.  “We are all a ticking timebomb.”

“‘S very poetic, John.”  Chris chuckles. 

“Hey, I just meant that none of this is going to matter in a few weeks.”  John sweeps his arm grandly, indicating the house and everyone in it.  He rises to his feet, tumbler still in hand.  “It’s kind of freeing, isn’t it?  Might as well make it count.”

Chris smiles back, raising his own glass.  He feels as if he’s somehow gotten John’s blessing.  “Hear, hear.”  

Just then, Alice bursts through the front door, Sarah quick on her heels, face shifting from crocked to concerned in the blink of an eye.  “Alice--”

“Oh, piss off, I’ve got a right to talk to my boyfriend if I want to.”  Her accent’s gone real thick, thicker than Chris has ever heard it.  She circles her arms around his neck with the control of someone trying to come off much less drunk than she is.  “Hello, you.  Can I ask you a question?”

“Alice, you’re trashed, maybe you should sit down.”  John is at her elbow, ready to escort her to the bench, but she presses closer to Chris, leaning in as if to kiss.

“I’ve a question.  And you’ve got to answer it honestly.  Because I need to know.”  Her eyes shine with tears.  

“Alice,” he warns, afraid of what she might say.  Of course she knows.  How could he underestimate her?

Before that train of thought can go anywhere, though, the question is out of her mouth.  “Why don’t you love me?”

John quickly and quietly dashes inside.  Sarah gently nudges Alice’s elbows.  “Alice, honey, he’s right.  You’re trashed.  It’s all right.  Let’s sit down.”  

She’s insistent.  “Why don’t you love me?  I thought you did.  I needed you to.”  She sobs.  “Why?”

He says nothing.  She suddenly slaps a hand over her mouth and runs over to the corner railing, puking into Karl’s mother’s rosebushes.  

Sarah gives him a look that could kill an army of men.  “You’d better go.”  She darts over to comfort Alice.  

_ Glad to _ , he wants to say.  He feels terrible.  But what’s to be done?  It’s just like John said: pretty soon, none of this is going to matter anymore.  As he walks to his car, an awful, exhilarating feeling comes over him, the feeling that he won’t be seeing much of any of them anymore.  

He’s only had half a gin and soda, so he’s okay to drive, and drive he does, in circles around endless suburban developments, rows of identical houses like strings of pearls in his periphery.  Before long, he finds himself at the bridge, then over the bridge, and then turning onto Quinto’s block.  He pulls over and cuts the engine.  There’s one dim light on in the basement apartment, at the side of the house.  He feels tears springing to his own eyes as he gets out of the car and strides in the direction of that light.  He’s soft on his feet as he approaches the lit window and gets into a catcher’s crouch to peer inside.  The window’s frosted, so he can’t see much, but it’s late enough that he’s willing to bet he isn’t at Mrs. Quinto’s window.  He clenches his eyes shut, twin tears falling down his cheeks, and raps lightly with his knuckles.  

There’s movement on the other side: a tall figure, blur of dark hair.  Chris gathers himself, swiping at his face just as the bottom half of the window slides up, notching open.  Quinto looks taken aback, like he was expecting someone else.  “Thought you’d be Zoe,” he whispers.  “She hasn’t done this in a while, though.”

“Can I--?”  Chris motions inside.  

Quinto nods dumbly, stepping back to give him room.  Chris gets down in the grass on his stomach and shimmies backward until his legs are dangling through the window, Quinto pulling him the rest of the way inside.  He rights himself, dusting off pieces of grass, and turns.  Quinto lifts a finger to his lips, and Chris nods.  They never do talk much.  

Chris looks him over as he scrubs a hand through the back of his hair.  He looks smaller, in a black tanktop and shorts, whorls of dark hair peeking out from the neck.  For all they’ve done, Chris has never touched it, he realizes.  

Quinto thumbs at the soft skin just underneath his eyes.  “All right?”

“Alice and I are through.”

“C’mere.”  Quinto takes him over to his bed, a small twin that barely fits the both of them, and they curl up there together, Quinto watching silently as more tears fall.  

“Zach?”  Chris calls him by name for the first time, tasting it with the salt on his tongue.  

“Yeah?”

“Wake me in an hour?”

“Sure.”

Chris tucks his face into the side of his neck, a place that’s quickly becoming more familiar than home.


End file.
